Another Day
by akisura12
Summary: There's not much for John to do anymore, now that Sherlock's gone. Post-Reichenbach.


Title: Another Day

Author: Akisura12

Warnings: Rated T, for self-harm, alcohol, swearing, major character death, and general angstiness.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Sherlock is property of the BBC. This work is purely for entertainment purposes only; I gain no direct or indirect profit from writing this.

A/N: My obligatory post-Reichenbach story. Please don't kill me. Also if anything close to this actually happens I will sob for hours. Please enjoy and drop a review, if you may!

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><p>There's not much for John to do anymore, now that Sherlock's gone. It's not as if John ever had the busiest social life, far from it, but now he's cut himself off from absolutely everyone.<p>

John gives Sherlock's eulogy at the funeral. He talks about how Sherlock was a great man, how he helped so many people, and how John will always believe in him. He doesn't say anything about how much he loved Sherlock, or how much he loves him still.

People talk about him behind his back at the after-reception, John can hear them. He doesn't care; besides, it's just another example of how Sherlock was always right, and he wasn't a liar.

"_People will talk."_

"_People do little else."_

Mrs. Hudson tries to convince John to stay at the flat, but every time John goes into his old room and sees all of Sherlock's things, he can't stand it; can't stand himself; the guilt that he didn't stop Sherlock – he was a doctor, he should've seen signs – nearly kills him to think about. And so he's moved now, to a flat in Cardiff. He doesn't care that it's in Wales, or that he has no connections there, or that he – who was once considered the perfect man to start a family with – can't even keep a proper employment.

He works odd jobs; gardening, waiting tables, he even takes a job as an organizer for a paper company for a bit. There he is mysteriously mistaken for someone named "Tim" all the time, which makes him want to kill someone because it sounds too much like Jim.

John meets with a client named Jim one day. He nearly strangles the poor man, and the police are called. John tells them that his husband was recently murdered by a man named Jim is all, and that's why he went a little manic. The police let him off with a warning. John doesn't feel bad for lying.

He has a few friends: a woman named Leah whom he met at the paper company and a guy named Kurt he met at one of the restaurants he bussed tables for, but he doesn't really take either of them seriously. They bring him out for coffee sometimes and tell him to cheer up, but they never ask why he's so down. He feels relief in that; he doesn't want to tell them why.

John gets texts from Mycroft sometimes. He usually reads them, but sometimes he just deletes them.

_John, I've got a job offer for you back at London._

_John, I know a nice flat you might be interested in._

_John, I know how much you meant to Sherlock. I'm sorry._

John doesn't ever reply.

Lestrade occasionally texts too, but mostly he actually rings John; unlike Sherlock did, he prefers to phone over text. He leaves John voicemail because John never picks up. The messages are always presented as if nothing terrible ever happened; he complains about how hard it is to find a job when he's that old, and how his daughter got an A on her math test, and how he saw someone who looked just like Steven Hawking in Tesco's yesterday. He never asks John to come back; he's really the only one John actually considers answering to, sometimes. He doesn't though.

He's stopped eating, because Sherlock never ate and it never killed him. Moriarty did. He's stopped sleeping most of the time too, because he understands why Sherlock never did. What if he misses something? Sherlock might come back and he'd miss it. A childhood fear of missing out on all the fun during nap time has revisited his mind, except now he knows he won't miss any _fun_, he simply doesn't want to miss _anything._

He collapses at work one day. Leah and Kurt bring him home and try to get him to eat something, but he won't. Not even to please them. He remembers how he used to drink the tea Sherlock made him, even if it was horrible, just so Sherlock wouldn't think he didn't appreciate the gesture. He doesn't really care that Leah and Kurt are trying to do the same thing, because they're not Sherlock. They don't matter nearly as much; no one ever will matter as much as Sherlock did. His quasi-friends leave appalled by the mess that is his flat and worried about John's well-being.

Mrs. Hudson comes for a visit a month after he moves to Cardiff. She tidies his flat and he watches her from his perch on the couch. He's sitting like Sherlock used to sit, because he likes to think it makes him closer to Sherlock. She tells him that he should move back into 221B. He tells her to go away.

He doesn't value company. He hates people trying to help him. He hates people recognizing him as that blogger fellow who was on the news last month. He skips work and doesn't care when he gets fired.

Leah stops coming around three months after Sherlock died. Kurt doesn't mind staying with him though. He brings John food once a week, because by now John's stopped going outside all together. Kurt's found out about Sherlock from the internet, and he's read John's blog. One day he tries to bring it up, and John screams at him. He finds a knife and threatens the poor man with it. After Kurt leaves he throws up and then drinks two bottles of vodka. He doesn't care about the painful hangover he know he should anticipate with dread in the morning, because pain is better than this complete and maddening _emptiness_.

Sometimes he hears voices in his head, and he thinks Sherlock's come back from the dead to see him. He keeps thinking of course Sherlock's not dead, because he's brilliant and better than everyone else and he wouldn't just randomly kill himself. He couldn't be fake. John himself had said, hadn't he, nobody could fake being such an annoying prick all the time.

But John can't stand to remember that he said that. How could he have insulted Sherlock? He hadn't even deserved to live in the same house as the great detective. He wasn't an annoying prick, he was the bravest and wisest man John had and will ever know.

One day Molly Hooper leaves a message on his mobile. He's stopped paying the bill on it for months, but he's pretty sure Mycroft's been paying for its upkeep, just like he's been paying for John's rent on his flat.

"Hey John," he listens to her voice. He'd forgotten about Molly, really. She was so insignificant, he hadn't even thought about how she might have been affected by Sherlock's death. She'd had a crush on him after all. How _distasteful_. The message continues, Molly's nervous voice saying, "Mycroft's told me where you've been living. I'm coming down for the weekend to visit my cousin and I was wondering if you'd like to have tea? Er, right, so, call me back okay?" The voicemail ends and John doesn't call her back. For a few seconds he wonders why Molly and Mycroft are in touch, but he goes back to cataloguing it as completely insignificant five minutes later.

The next morning, he sends her a text. "No." Is all he types, and presses send. He doesn't hear back from Molly after that.

He thinks about killing himself. Shooting himself in the temple would be quick, easy, nearly painless if he did it right, which he knew how to. He was a doctor though, and so he has always been faced with absolute logic. Killing himself would not be logical. The logical thing to do would be to get over Sherlock, because he never loved John in return and he was dead, get a job and a wife and have kids with her.

John hates that option so much he doesn't even begin to try it.

Every day he sits in his flat alone, simply thinking, words and thoughts going round and round his head, with no end and no beginning. It is like walking in a dream. The guilt continues to eat away at his poor soul, supposing he has one still.

About five months into living in Cardiff, John in some way contracts pneumonia. He has no idea how he could have possibly acquired the infection, seeing as he hasn't left the flat in four months, but he coughs and throws up the nothings in his stomach and no matter what, he can't help but think of Sherlock the entire time. Well, Sherlock and wishing that he could die from this. That way, people wouldn't think of his death as suicide (perhaps a very minor bit of John _does_ still care about others' opinions of him).

He blacks out a week into his illness and wakes up in hospital a week later. Mycroft has somehow figured out what was happening and had him moved to a place where he can be cared for. John _hates_ him for that. He doesn't exactly blame Mycroft completely for what happened to Sherlock, but he by no means has forgiven the man, not for a second. He'd like to strangle the elder Holmes out of spite.

He leaves the hospital ten days after he's woken up there, promising the doctors that he will take his medicine and stay healthy. He does neither.

When he eats, he eats little. When he sleeps, it is only for an hour, before he wakes with thoughts or nightmares of Sherlock. He is disappointed when, despite not taking his medicine like a good little boy, he does not die and survives just as well as he has in the last five months.

Seven months into living in Cardiff, it is the 29th of January. The day he met Sherlock, two years previously. John sits in his bathroom and makes little cuts up and down his arms. He doesn't make them long and deep enough for them to bleed extremely much – it'd be pointless to pass out from blood loss – but just enough to cause him pain; to see tiny rivers run down his arms, strange little streams intertwining together and pooling at his palm, dripping onto the fuzzy red bathroom rug that Mrs. Hudson had put in his flat when he moved in. The red stains his arms, drying quickly into dark, crimson-brown lines akin to tree bark. The release feels good; John wonders why he ever craved sex instead of this.

Afterwards he pours rubbing alcohol over the cuts. He doesn't care that it makes them burn like he has applied a match to his skin, because he'd rather feel the pain now than go to the hospital later if they got infected. He bandages them properly, because he hasn't entirely abandoned his medical training, and goes about his non-existent life as if nothing has happened.

When Kurt comes that Sunday with his usual groceries, he is appalled to see the bandages. John lies unmoving on the couch while Kurt grabs at his arms, untwining his perfectly wrapped gauze – what a waste – and looking horrified to see all the cuts on John's arms. He tells John he is going to refer him to a psychiatric clinic. John tells him to fuck off, or he will kill him. It's not an entirely empty threat either.

Kurt doesn't come for a few weeks after that, but someone rings the door bell and leaves groceries on his doorstep anyways. He doesn't know if it's Kurt of Mycroft's doing, but he doesn't really care enough to bother figuring it out.

Life goes on. Or rather, drags on. John hasn't left that flat in eight months. It's May now. For some reason, John decides to check Sherlock's blog, perhaps a glimmer of rare hope entering his mind, and he looks to see if there has been a new post.

The last post was sometime around March, when little Kristy Stapleton sent her message to Sherlock asking for help on finding her rabbit. John is disgusted that the little bitch even thought for a second that she was worthy enough to ask for Sherlock's help. He's disgusted with himself for thinking that way.

The last post Sherlock himself made says "Shut up John." John imagines Sherlock's low voice growling that, after John had teased him. That night, John smashes his laptop and then burns the pieces in the fireplace. He doesn't care how bad the fumes probably are for his health. His landlord come up to his room in a furry, yelling something about poison and smells, but John stays on the couch stagnant, simply breathing in the smell of melting plastic and metal.

He is now completely disconnected from the rest of the world. He literally threw his phone out of the window last month, and he has no home line. His laptop is burned. Kurt doesn't really say much when he comes with the weekly groceries anymore. John suspects he only comes out of obligation more than actual concern these days.

John tries to remember being happy. He can't.

It has been ten months since the last time John left the flat when, on the sixteenth day of June, Molly Hooper shows up at his doorstep. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's death, and John was planning something special. He was going to see how many sewing pins he could stick into his skin without stopping. When he answers the door, he sees the surprise and disgust and sadness that enter her expression when she sees him; when she sees what he's become. He doesn't really blame her.

The one habit John's kept since Sherlock died, just a little, is his personal grooming. He stills shaves and cuts his hair so it stays short. He stills bathes. But he only shaves every other week when his stubble gets itchy, only cuts his hair when it gets annoyingly long, and only takes a shower about once a week. Molly's probably lucky; he bathed three days ago. He shaved last week. He still looks appalling.

"John?" She says, and her voice is so _sweet_, and nice, and John wants to murder her. "John, come home."

He stares at her, blankly. Come home? When Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson told him to come home, they seemed almost desperate, as if they personally needed him to come home. Molly, however – perfect, ambiguous, sweetheart Molly – seems… bored? She's not pleading with him, or trying to convince him. She's simply asking him. She seems to legitimately want him to come home, not for her sake, but for his own.

He doesn't know why, but he does. He returns to London. He doesn't live in 221B, because that'd be too much at once, but he lives in the flat above Molly (the landlord rents the house out; it's just the two of them). That way she can check on him, make sure he's eating. Before he moves, he has a moment of charitable feeling and calls Kurt. He thanks the young man for his kindness and wishes him best luck in life. Afterwards he throws out the piece of paper he kept the Kurt and Leah's numbers on.

His new flat is small, a little smaller than his one in Cardiff, but John doesn't really have all that much to bring when he moves in, so it doesn't matter. Besides, he prefers this smallness. Though he didn't think he would, he actually enjoys the presence of another body in relatively close proximity.

He has no idea why Molly Hooper is the one taking care of him. He can't begin fathom why; he had never even thought about her, before nor after Sherlock's death, and they'd never exactly had an open or particularly friendly relationship. But he doesn't comment on it. Surprisingly to him, being back in London is better than he thought it would be.

It's strange, living in this city – this _battlefield –_ Without Sherlock Holmes there beside him. John had lived in England most of his life, and so the country itself had always felt like home. However they had moved often when he was a child; London, specifically, had never been "his home." Not until Sherlock. Sherlock had made London seem like the best place in the world.

Sometimes John goes out. He rides the tube with the monthly allowance that somehow shows up in this checking account, probably from Mycroft, and stares out the window. He gets on the train first thing in the morning and doesn't get off until it's late at night and have to tell him to get off. He imagines Sherlock deducing all the people on the train, insulting them. It relaxes him.

He finally meets up with Lestrade. The man has lost his job, his wife (again), and his daughter has shunned him for believing in Sherlock. He is now a lowly receptionist at a law firm, working for barely more than minimum wage. John feels sympathetic for him; it's feels like the first time he's felt sympathy in ages.

Lestrade treats him to coffee. John isn't much up for talking himself, so Greg – that's what he tells John to call him now – mostly tells him about how London's been going recently and about his daughter, and his job. John is thankful that he doesn't mention Sherlock. He also doesn't mention the tiny scars up and down John's arms, or the fact that John looks so terrible. John smiles a little that day. The expression feels foreign on his face. A good kind of foreign, though. He promises Greg that he will go out for coffee with him again sometime.

Molly makes him go to the doctor's one day. He's lost twenty pounds since the last time he was weighed. He's malnourished and is given a lot of pills and nutrients to take each day. Unlike when he had pneumonia, he actually follows directions and swallows them dutifully (usually).

He starts to like Molly a bit more. She is nice, and gentle. She doesn't force him to do anything too quickly. He doesn't nag him to get a job or to stop sitting around so much. She only _encourages_ him to do things.

Eventually, he gets a job at the local Tesco ("You're a bit more than overqualified, sir." "I know."). He keeps some of the money in his savings account. It's a new one; he doesn't feel bad using up Mycroft's money, but he prefers to use it only for things like food and bills. He uses his new one for things he doesn't really need, but buys anyway. For example, he in time has enough money to buy a new cell phone. It is a good phone, the kind you can search the internet with and text with a keypad. Just once, he sends a text to Sherlock's old phone; he's long memorized the number.

_Come home_.

Those words had worked with him, so he wonders if it will work with Sherlock. He doesn't expect it will. It doesn't. He doesn't exactly panic to the degree he would have a few months ago, but he does stay on the couch for three days straight. Molly just sits in the chair next to him and talks to him about her job at post-mortem, and brings him tea. It helps.

Life gets better, somehow. Slowly. He still feels the loss of Sherlock and the hate and fear of what had happened. The confusion doesn't leave at any extent. But at least he _cares _about things again now. Somehow, feeling the pain is better than having everything be so blank – _gone_ – as it was before.

The New Year comes, and John actually notices it. He considers that progress. It's been a year and a half since Sherlock died. It doesn't hurt any less to think about it, but he's coping. He gets through the thirty-first of January without imagining himself murdering Mike Stanford. In fact, to prove to himself that he is getting stronger (he never deludes himself into thinking he's perfectly fine now, or ever was) he calls Mike up and wishes him a happy birthday, which was last month, but a gracious gesture all the same (and Mike knows it).

By the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, John is working as a doctor again. He only does part-time, but it's still work. He's gained back a bit of the weight he'd lost. He's managed to visit Mrs. Hudson at 221B without completely breaking down. He's even visited Harry once, whom he hadn't had any contact with in ages. He is startled to find that she was actually worried about him.

He gathers the courage to post on his blog. It is a simple post, only a few sentences.

[29 June]

Hey

Hello everyone. I hope you've all had a nice year so far. Look, Ella, I'm updating… Just to quote myself. Anyway, I don't plan on reactivating this blog, not really, but I just wanted to let anyone who still cares know that I'm not dead.

To his utter surprise, John gets a completely enthusiastic response.

I've missed you mate. Let's go out for a pint sometime eh?

Bill Murray 29 June 18:48

Omg, you updated! I'm sorry for what happened :(. I still believe in Sherlock! Have a nice day!

Jacob Sowersby 29 June 18:59

I missed seeing your updates!

Anonymous 29 June 19:14

Hey bro! Nice seeing you recently… I hope you keep updating so I can keep in touch with you more since you DON'T HAVE A FACEBOOK :P

Harry Watson 29 June 19:54

Hello John! I didn't realize I had this on feed still… anyway I'm happy you're back in London. Maybe I'll see you next time you visit Mrs. Hudson!

Marie Turner 29 June 20:12

WELCOME BACK!

Anonymous 29 June 20:12

John! I didn't kno u were back in London! Hope 2 see you round sometime.

Sally Donovan 29 June 20:22

this is pointless. though I must admit, i've missed reading you two's blogs all these months gone by…

theimprobableone 29 June 20:25

What's up mate? Thanks for the birthday call :).

Mike Stamford 29 June 20:49

Glad to hear from you luv. Drop by soon!

Mrs Hudson 29 June 21:13

Nice to see you updating; what do you want for supper tomorrow night?

Molly Hooper 29 June 21:34

Woah, you've living with a girl now? LMFAO

Harry Watson 29 June 21:51

Hey, I just wanna say, I've always kept this blog in my bookmarks, just to make sure if I knew it was ever updated. Thanks so much for bringing back the legacy^^.

Anonymous 29 June 22:18

There are a handful of other comments from people John doesn't really know very well, but he's still shocked. People still followed his blog; people still _care_ about his blog? How strange. While he's spent months cooped up inside a flat in Wales, alone, they went about their life like they had before, growing, changing, and apparently, not forgetting him. There are one or two comments in the sixty-two that he gets during the night that say something like "Sherlock was a fake you moron," but John ignores them. The counter stays at 1895.

Though it's happened slowly, he realizes it very suddenly: he isn't so unhappy anymore. It's a relief, really. All the stress and anxiety he didn't know he'd been holding in for so long is gradually released, moderately; he admits to Molly he loved Sherlock (perhaps not like a lover, but love all the same). She looks like she might cry.

But for some reason, despite his returned eating habits, he starts to lose weight again. He has moments of dizziness, and his back starts to ache a lot. It's not just the getting-old kind of aches either. He's sick one day, and so Molly takes a blood sample. "Just to make sure," she says, cheerful but still nervous and silently evading saying what exactly she is actually making sure _of_. John knows what is going to come from this before he even gets the results back.

_Brain Tumor. Cancer. Inoperable_.

Well, he hadn't counted on the inoperable part. He doesn't cry. In all honestly, he doesn't know what to think. He'd wanted to die for so long after Sherlock's death; he was just starting to live again now. What sick fate was his?

Molly tells him to tell Mrs. Hudson. So he does, and she cries. He watches her cry; they sit in her kitchen in chairs opposite the table and she sobs. John remembers Mrs. Hudson telling him that Sherlock once said crying wouldn't impede the flight of a bullet. It's true. Sadly; what a tender world that _would_ be.

John doesn't feel like he's going to die within a year. It's not as if the pains all that bad .Turns out, he's had the tumor for a while now, but it's been dormant; the pain hadn't started until it'd grown more, and now it's too close to his frontal lobe for the doctors to even dare operating on. They say that he has less than a five percent chance of surviving if they do try to operate. He doesn't ask them to.

It's not giving up, he doesn't think. It's simply accepting. He's a doctor, and he's not stupid; he knows a five percent chance is practically as good as no chance at all when it comes to surgery. And all that drinking and not leaving the house a few months back has left his body weak, even if he is still recovering. He quits his job again, because his own doctor tells him that he should try to avoid being around sick people, as even catching a cold could literally be catching his death.

He tells his sister, and she looks absolutely broken. John doesn't know why; she hasn't really cared enough to intervene with his affairs in the last two years, has she? But he lets her hug him and sob a little and then they depart.

When he tells Greg, the poor man doesn't seem to know what to do. John can see what he's thinking: that he can't stand to lose someone else so soon. In a way, he's had it worse than John. John lost his best friend. Greg lost his friend, colleague, job, wife and kid. John tells Greg that he's the bravest of them all.

The last person he needs to tell is Mycroft. He still doesn't like the man, but John knows that Mycroft's one of the main reasons he's not living on the streets at the present. Well, Mycroft's money that is. The eldest – only, he reminds himself – Holmes tells him he will take care of his expenses. John agrees to let him.

Finally, he and Molly have to talk about it. He doesn't have much, but there is the matter of what to do with his few possessions. He decides to leave most of them to Molly, because then she won't have to move any of it out of the flat. A few of Sherlock's old possessions are left to Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft.

And so everyone is told – it's not a secret – and he's going to die within a year. One day, he is having a coffee at a local café and Irene Adler shows up. Her skin is like delicate white ivory and her lips red like coral, her hair seamlessly perfect as it had been so long ago.

"You were dead," he says to her blankly. "You were."

"No," she says calmly, her voice as smooth and either intentionally or unintentionally sexy as always. "Sherlock saved me, and I pretended to be dead in order to protect myself."

John frowns, trying to wrap his head around this idea. The dead rising. How peculiar. "So why are you here now?" He asks.

She seems to pause for a moment, uncharacteristic of her, John knows, before saying, "Because you're dying." It's just like that: blunt, not at all sugar coated. It reminds him of Sherlock. John smiles a little, and Irene does in turn. "You've done well without him John," she says softly, placing one of her smooth, manicured hands onto his own. "You've done so well."

John's a little startled. "Hey, I'm not dying yet," he tries to ease the tension between them. "And, well, what else was there for me to do?"

There's something strange in Irene's eyes that makes John feel… different. "Yes, what else," the ex-dominatrix muses. Neither of them likes to think about what else John _could_ have done. Then they talk for a bit about what's happened to Irene since she "died": about how she did, after all, move to America and become a successful stage actress. John's happy for her.

Before they part, John asks, "Will I be seeing you again?"

"Perhaps," Irene says. "I don't know." John finds it strange that The Woman doesn't know, but he doesn't comment. "It depends on what happens. When it's safe for the both of us."

"You and me?" John asks, confused.

"Hmm," Irene hums, her tone affirmative. John can't see why she doesn't just say yes, though.

In all honestly, it's really not until sometime after a lovely Christmas spent with Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Greg – about half a year since his diagnosis – that John notices the aches more. It's mostly in his back, but the back of his legs on his arms hurt sometimes too. It feels like a headache is constantly brooding behind his eyes, at times faint and at others more noticeable. On the first day it gets too bad for him to go outside because of the sunlight, Molly stays with him upstairs and reads a book to him. He finds in comforting, if not a bit weird.

And then the fevers start. The headaches, though painful, were manageable with medicine. The aches were ignorable. But the fevers were _just there_. He has meds to bring his temperature back down, but they take a while to work. Being delirious and cold and confused were all things he hated, and they all came with the fever.

But these weeks, though bad, are not very close; he even takes a vacation to New Zealand with Greg for a week, just for fun (under the checking account of Mycroft). He thinks of the last time he went to New Zealand with his old girlfriend Sarah. He remembers how Sherlock barely realized he was gone. It's more fun this time.

All is well. John doesn't want to die, but he tries not to think about it. He tells himself he's lived a wonderful life, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. But that's not entirely true, because he would trade anything for another life with Sherlock. Even if he was a fake, but John knows, _he wasn't_.

The last time he almost died was in Afghanistan. He'd been shot in the shoulder – the scar is still there, like a flower of fleshy tissue blooming from his collar bone – and infections and fever had set in. He thinks of how he told Sherlock that he'd said, "Please God let me live." He doesn't verbalize it, but he wants the last word on his lips to be "Sherlock," this time. After all, Sherlock's last words were "Goodbye, John."

John starts to spend more and more time on Molly's couch in the downstairs flat. He likes the company, Molly likes him close bye, and it's getting harder for him to get up his stairs anyway. He starts watching Doctor Who again, which was a childhood joy; despite a lot of older fans' opinions, he enjoys the new episodes.

Molly sits in her own chair next to the couch, and it's almost like how it was at 221B, except this time John's the one on the couch and Molly isn't Sherlock. John is very grateful for Molly now. After all, the girl really had no reason to be the one who pieced his life back together, but she was. He likes her much better than he used to, when she used to forget his name and he would forget she was in the room. He supposes it was because both of them were too busy admiring the genius in the room to pay much attention to each other.

One day when he was watching the nightly broadcast on her couch and she is typing on her computer, he asks her, "Who are you writing to?"

He notices, bewildered, that she stiffens slightly, as if he's slapped her. "Nobody," she says quickly. Her cringing had lasted no more than a second, but John doesn't forget it. When she gets called into work for a night shift, he hacks her computer – it's password protected, but since he uses her computer sometimes, he knows the code – and looks at her sent emails (she doesn't log out). He knows he should feel worse but he's too curious for his own good and hey, he does have cancer after all.

John goes into her outbox and looks at the last sent message. It's to a person whose name he doesn't recognize; there's no name on the contact.

To: .

From: .uk

Subject: Re: From Molly

Sent: Today, 20:37

He's dying. Come home.

John doesn't know what to think of this. It doesn't take a detective to figure out who's dying, obviously it's him, but what's not obvious is who William Hamish is, and why he's talking about John with Molly. John scrolls down to look at what emails had preceded this one. The conversation (which seems to have started last week) is composed of short, concise little emails, and goes something like this:

Molly: You need to come back.

William: I can't. Not yet.

Molly: Hurry up.

William: I'm trying.

Molly: Not hard enough. You're running out of time.

William: Out of time?

Molly: Yes.

William: What do you mean when you say I am running out of time?

Molly: He's dying. Come home.

John is very confused. Who's running out of time, and why does that effect John? He tries to find something else in Molly's email from this man, William, but there is none. John taps side of the keyboard anxiously, his curiosity strong, when a small *ding* comes from the laptop. A new email. From William

To: .uk

From: .

Subject: Re: From Molly

Sent: Today, 22:37

What do you mean dying? That had better not be a metaphor for something Molly.

John isn't exactly a snoop, and it takes all of him to ignore the feeling of what's not-good and good and deviously reply as Molly:

To: .

From: .uk

Subject: Re: From Molly

Sent: Today, 22:41

He has cancer.

He waits, taps his leg, waiting excitedly for a response. He feels like he's in grade school again, when he and his friends snuck downstairs at night during a sleepover to eat something.

Finally:

To: .uk

From: .

Subject: Re: From Molly

Sent: Today, 22:43

I'm trying. Just a few more months. I'm sorry.

John doesn't reply this time. Apparently, someone important to Molly wants to see him before he dies. He has no idea who, and honestly he's a bit weirded out. He closes her laptop and thinks about what he's seen. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep.

When he wakes up, it's afternoon and Molly is in the kitchen making tea (he can hear her). He's achy; perhaps this won't be a good day.

"Molly," he calls hoarsely, his voice croaky from sleep.

She comes into the room and looks at him, worried, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," John says, rubbing his eyes. "I was just wondering… Who's William Hamish?" He doesn't really care that this will prove he's been looking through her emails.

Molly stiffens, and she almost looks angry. Flustered would be a more correct term though. "John, you are not to take advantage of my computer, do you understand that?" Her voice is harsh, and John can't help but to feel a little guilty now, like he's being scolded by his mum or something.

"Yes," he sighs in agreement. He knew it had been wrong of him to look at her emails. But he's still curious… "Do I know him?"

Molly's face was one of someone who is making a tough decision. "Not really," she says finally. "Not anymore. You've met him before though."

John tries to remember ever meeting anyone named William Hamish, but all the Williams he knows don't have the last name of Hamish, and he doesn't know anyone whose surname was Hamish in the first place; it was his middle name, and that was all really. "Where?" John asks.

"The hospital," Molly says.

"Oh." He must've been a patient then. "Why does he want to see me so badly?"

"Because you saved his life," Molly says.

"Oh." Well, he is a doctor after all. He wonders why Molly's talking to him though. He decides he'll just let it slide.

"John," Molly says sternly, "Do not go into my email again."

"Okay," John agrees. When he tries to again a week later, Molly has changed the password to her email and logged out. He forgets about William Hamish within the month, because things get worse. He has himself to worry about now.

Spring's come, but John stays inside. He's not hiding like he was two years ago though, he is literally unable to get off the couch without assistance; it's become somewhat of his own little habitat now. Hours go by so slowly, but days go by quickly, and time is just plain confusing. John stops trying to keep track. His back hurts so badly now, and sometimes, when it's really bad, he imagines killing himself just for the relief. Molly and Mrs. Hudson agree that he is too ill to be left alone anymore. The hospital can't do anything, except give him more pain meds, and so he simply stays in the flat.

Molly stops working so much – John suspects that Mycroft had some part in the financial side of this affair – and in addition to the Sundays she already she had off, she also takes Mondays and Fridays off as well. Mrs. Hudson stays with him on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Greg stays with him on Thursdays and Saturdays. John, though initially embarrassed at his friends' self-sacrifices to keep him comfortable, soon learns to appreciate the gesture enormously, because now he even needs help walking to the bathroom.

The simplest things – things he never even thought about doing – are hard now. It's difficult to write, because his hands can't clench the pencil tight enough. He can't work the television remote without concentrating really hard, because his fingers shake and hits the wrong buttons. Getting dressed includes using so many muscles that John starts only wearing the simplest clothes he has, ones with little or no buttons or zippers. At dinner, Molly cuts his food for him.

It's a bit like being reversed back into a child. He feels so _helpless_. As much as he tries to thank his friends for what they do for him each day, sometimes he gets so angry that he refuses to talk to any of them, simply because this is probably the most his ego has ever been harmed. They do _everything_ for him, and he can't complain.

Oh his birthday, 31 March, they throw a small party for him. It's just him, Molly, Greg, and surprisingly Mycroft, but John enjoys it anyway. They have a cake and candles and balloons, and John laughs a lot that day.

Greg pokes fun at him for not getting up and greeting people as they came to the door, and they play a few word games, which probably wasn't the most adult thing to do for fun on a grown man's birthday, but John can't drink alcohol because of his meds and nobody wants to drink without him. And besides, the word games actually prove fun. Mycroft even joins in a few rounds, though everyone can tell he's restraining himself from using words nobody's ever thought or heard of in their entire lives and crushing all of their self-esteems.

They sing Happy Birthday to him, and John blushes and grins. They eat their cake – John hasn't moved from his place on the couch since the party started, but everyone's hanging around the area so it's not as if he's missing anything – and John receives his unexpected but lovely gifts. Mrs. Hudson knitted him a new jumper made of extremely soft, pale blue cashmere, and Greg bought him a few books he's wanted to read for a while. Molly gives him a movie they've wanted to watch for ages (Friday night is their movie night). Mycroft appears to give him nothing, but when John checks his banking account the next day, he's not surprised to find a couple hundred euros added into his balance.

The party is early, as far as time goes – 16:00-20:00 – because John can't stay awake for very long and goes to bed so early, but they have a grand time anyway. John can't remember being happier, surrounded by the people whom he loves and whom he knows love him.

When Mycroft sees John – it's been a few months since the elusive quasi-politician has last shown his face – he looks ill for a bit. He greets John cheerfully, but he looks stricken, and sits down quickly. John asks him what's wrong, but Mycroft waves it off. Later when he speaks to Molly about it, he is shocked to hear that Mycroft was extremely worried about him; that seeing John's condition had made him anxious.

John looks himself in the mirror – _really_ looks – and is aghast to find how thin and pale he is. He's always been the guy who people call a teddy bear, cuddly, but now he looks more like Sherlock that he though was possible, with his cheekbones prominent and his clothes hanging loosely off him; despite sleeping the most he has ever slept in his entire life, he still looks as if he is exhausted. He doesn't blame Mycroft for being alarmed.

John has a monthly appointment to the best clinic for cancer patients in all of London. It's a long and painful struggle for he and whoever is helping him into the car Mycroft has provided to get him there. On his April appointment, the doctor tells him he doesn't need to come anymore. He gives John a special prescription for all the pain meds he will need for the next two months. He reluctantly tells John that he won't need them for any longer than that.

_Two more months._ He knew that this is almost precisely the time – expiration date – that he'd gotten when he'd first found out about his tumor, but he can't help but think, '_Why can't I have longer?'_

"I don't want to die yet," he says in a strangled whisper to Molly one night, while she is trying dose down his excruciating pain with some strong meds. "I'm not ready." He gasps as Molly breaks through his skin with a hypodermic needle, injecting the drugs into his system. He whimpers and grabs onto the sleeve of her shirt. "Molly please, I'm not ready."

She hushes him gently and pushes him back into the cushions of the couch, which has long held him form. She strokes his hair back, wet with sweat, and tries to comfort him. "Shh, it's alright love," she coos.

"I'm not ready," John cries again, barely lucid.

"Nobody happy ever is," she says softly, and John can feel the pull of exhaustion and sleep, making his vision blurrier (he should be wearing glasses now, due to the swelling of his optic nerve). "Now sleep." John passes out with his head on her lap.

John doesn't know if it's a dream or real, but he thinks he woke up and heard Molly yelling at someone on the phone. Something like, "You have to come back, god. He's gotten so much worse. Sherlock you are not going to have a _chance_ to see him again if you do not come back right now!" John falls back to sleep, thinking that this was a dream, or his hearing was going now. The dead can't make phone calls, after all.

The next month is a bit of a blur, he can't remember most of it really. He knows there a lot of instances where he seizes and goes a bit manic from pain with Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and on one memorable occasion, when for some reason nobody could come during the day, Mycroft.

Mycroft's softened some, since Sherlock's death. Perhaps because he no longer has any competition for who Mummy-likes-best. John suspects it's because he doesn't have to worry about Sherlock though. But now he worries about John, which John takes as both a compliment and a curse. Compliment because, well, it's pretty hard to get any Holmes to care enough about you to actually volunteer to take care of you, and a curse because… That's one more person who will miss him when he dies.

John doesn't have such low confidence that he thinks nobody will remember him, or that he doesn't matter. He knows people will grieve him, and that he has emotional importance in their hearts. He never impacted the world, but he has impacted individuals. It's not death he fears at all really, it's the hurt that he dreads to anticipate causing his friends because of his death.

One springy morning, John has somewhat of a good day, in terms of pain. He can barely walk, but that's preferable to not being able to walk at all. He decides it's a good day to call Harry. He phones her and tells her to come down. She says she's busy, and so he says what he hadn't wanted to say, but needs to say anyway: "It will probably be your last chance to see me, Harry." There is a pause on the other end, and then Harry says she'll be there in half an hour.

When there's a knock on the door an hour later – Harry was never great with times – Greg opens it. Harry is clean today – has been (for real) for at least a month now – and walks brusquely in; Greg says he's going to go get some groceries.

She starts to sob the moment that she sees her baby brother, fevered and body run ragged. John is alarmed; he's seen Harry cry lots of times when they were children, but his sister's always been the stronger one of the two; the one that guys found attractive for her looks and her strength, both inner and outer. He won't admit it, but that fact that just looking at John causes her to cry makes him uncomfortable and strangely guilty.

They talk, briefly. John tells her about his cancer and treatment, and how he only has a few weeks left, probably four or five. After her initial crying, Harry seems to man up a bit. John can still tell she's on the brink of sobbing though.

"I'm sorry… that I haven't been here for you," she says sadly.

"It's alright," John says. He knows Harry was busy, between getting back together with Clara and working her demanding jobs.

"No. It's not," she says firmly. "And I will spend the rest of my life regretting it." She pats him gently on the back – both of them ignore how it makes John flinch with pain – and kisses him gently on the forehead. The last time John was kissed was… Well, before Sherlock died, probably by one of those girlfriends he'd had that he doesn't even remember the names of now. Mrs. Hudson kisses him on the cheek sometimes, but that's all. This feels nice. Warm. He feels wanted.

"Goodbye, Harry," he says simply when she has to leave. She nods firmly, a single tear escaping from her right eye.

"I love you, John," she says, and then turns to leave. John sniffs for a few minutes after she is gone. After all, Harry was his last blood relative, and now they have parted. When Greg comes back, he doesn't say anything if he notices John's eyes are a little red.

In his last month of life, John starts making lists. Lists of what he wanted to do but never happened, what he wanted but never had and what he had but wants to give away. What he wants people to be able to achieve once the responsibility of caring for him has left. He realizes every single person who has tirelessly worked for his wellbeing during these long months had all been connected to him through Sherlock: Lestrade was Sherlock's, well, advisor, he supposes, Molly was his morgue-friend, and Mrs. Hudson was his landlady. He realizes that he's missed a lot in his life, but he's also done so much. He decides that in all honestly, he regrets pretty much nothing. It's been a good life.

Though John's come to terms with his death, it's not as if he wants it to come. Not most of the time. But the seizures get more often, and worse, and John starts to lose some of his personality. That's probably the strangest part: he doesn't feel like John Watson anymore. The times when he is confused are starting to outweigh the times when he is lucid. His vision continues to deteriorate, along with his sense of smell, and he experiences too many moments of aphasia to be comfortable.

He starts to not look forward to, but not at all dread the day when all of this goes away, assuming it does in the afterlife.

One Monday, John wakes up, and he knows he's going to die. He's going to die and it will be soon, within the week or so. He tells Molly his suspicions. He is pleased when she doesn't panic, or tell him he's being silly; delusions will not help anything. Instead, she takes the rest of the week off, and phones Mrs. Hudson and Greg, who do the same. John tells them they needn't sacrifice so much. Greg tells him it's their last chance to do anything for him, so they might as well. John won't pretend he didn't cry a little then.

He reflects on his life. How he'd been raised, cared for physically but neglected emotionally. How he had gone to war, and how it had changed him. How he'd met Sherlock, and how _Sherlock_ had changed him. How Sherlock had died; how John still misses him. He supposes that's something to look forward to in death: seeing Sherlock again.

After supper one evening, he asks Mrs. Hudson what the date is. "Saturday, 14 June dear," she says, and lays another blanket over him, because the fever won't go away now and he is constantly cold. He thanks her and then falls asleep.

He dreams about Sherlock, and meeting Sherlock again. He's in heaven; it's different from what John thought it would be like. It's just 221B, how it was before anything went wrong. There are no echoed voices or halos around their heads.

"Am I dead?" He asks Sherlock, who is radiantly beautiful, perhaps more so, than John always remembers him.

"Yes," Sherlock says, and John sighs.

"I love you," he says, but Sherlock is gone. John wakes up panting and shaking. Lestrade is trying to comfort him – was he crying? – And Molly seemed to be rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen for medicine. He hurts terribly.

It's already afternoon; he's slept through the day. He asks Mrs. Hudson if she's going to church. She tells him that she's sure they'll pardon her for a day. John hadn't asked her to stay with him, but he didn't have to, because she will keep close. She's knows that she's wanted – needed – without John telling her. He loves her like the mother he lost so long ago, just a boy of eight or so. John realizes that he'll be able to see her again too, once he's gone.

"Thank you," he utters hoarsely, and his voice is so quiet it surprises even him. Mrs. Hudson smiles down at him sadly and sits next to him on the couch. He winces at the movement of the couch, but relaxes when she settles and places his head on her lap.

"You're a wonderful man, John Watson," she soothes him, and a few of the fiery aches that never go away dull slightly. "You are smart, and caring, and beautiful. I know Sherlock loved you as much as you loved him, and I love you too." Her words are taken in gratefully, and he falls asleep to her soft voice humming a tune, a tune he remembers… Perhaps it is something that Sherlock composed, when he was still alive. John wonders if Sherlock is composing in heaven; if he's composed a song for John.

The last time he wakes up, he hears shouting. His head is still in Mrs. Hudson's lap. She is shushing Molly and Lestrade, who are yelling. He wonders why they're fighting; in all this time, he's never really seen them get truly angry at each other.

"You bastard!" John hears, but it's Lestrade who's saying it. Who's a bastard? Greg certainly wouldn't call Molly that.

"Never mind that!" Molly says, and he can hear her gasping, as if she's sobbing. "Leave him alone Greg, he only has a little time left!" John is intrigued. He looks up at Mrs. Hudson's blurred figure; his eyesight is so terrible now and his eyes are watering from being so ill. He gives her a questioning look, and she shakes her head quietly.

And then, suddenly, there is a figure in front of him. John doesn't need his full eyesight to know who it is.

_Sherlock_.

He doesn't panic because, well, if there is anyone who he wants to bring him to heaven, it's Sherlock. "Hello," he says sleepily. His eyelids flutter. He can feel himself smile, slightly.

"John?" Sherlock's questioning voice is as beautiful as ever. John smiles some more, though a small, insignificant part of him wonders why Sherlock sounds so worried.

"In all this time, you're the only one I've really looked forward to," he says, because when you're dying, there's no point in not being completely honest.

"No, John, I'm not a ghost, I'm real," Sherlock says firmly, but his tone is broken, lacking the energy John remembers.

"Of course you are," John says. It's getting harder to keep his eyes open, a slight ringing in his ears is growing.

"I'm not," Sherlock cries, and John can feel a tear splash on to his cheek, right before Sherlock's lips connect with his.

This has to be the best way to go any man has ever received. "I'm so happy I get to see you again," John says. "I've been waiting so long. I love you, you know. Still." It's the most John's spoken in ages, and it hurts his throat but he doesn't care. He wonders why the pain isn't ebbing yet, even though he's dead. Because he has to be, hasn't he? There's no way Sherlock's actually alive again.

"I… I love you too," John hears Sherlock's chocked response.

John smiles. In all the times he's talked to dream-Sherlock and hallucinogenic-Sherlock and the wall, pretending Sherlock can hear him, he's never gotten Sherlock to reply to that phrase, that certain phrase. And now that he's heard Sherlock say that he loves John too, he knows that he's most definitely on death's doorstep.

"Hey, don't cry," John says, and it takes all of his strength to lift his arm up and touch Sherlock's cheek, gently. Mrs. Hudson and Molly and quietly crying, and maybe Greg is too. "We're finally together, and now we can be forever, yeah?"

"No John, I…" Sherlock stutters and then – "I love you, John."

"Thank you, Sherlock" John sighs out, and then there's nothing else left but pure and unbreakable emptiness inside the shell that was once John Watson.

* * *

><p><strong>John H. Watson<strong>

London – John H. Watson, 43, of 622 New Franklin Street, London, died of a cancerous brain tumor on Monday night, 16 June 2014, in his home surrounded by his three closest friends.

He was born 31 March, 1971 in Hampshire, England.

Watson received his medical degree at Wellington College, Hampshire, and worked as an army doctor in Afghanistan. He was honored with both a Military Cross and a George Cross for his service. Returning to London, he was known for writing short blogs on the mysterious detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He is survived by his sister, Harry Watson.

Funeral service will be held 11:00 Saturday at St. Bartholomew's Church, London. Open calling hours will be from 14:00-16:00.

Donations may be made to the charity Brian Tumor UK (0845 4500).


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